


The One In Which Daryl Feeds Jesus

by yellowhairedrobot



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Daryl feeds Jesus, Domestic Fluff, Food as a Metaphor for Love, I literally have no idea what this is, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 11:49:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6193954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowhairedrobot/pseuds/yellowhairedrobot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I got a skunk in the freezer, if you get hungry for more.”</i>
</p><p>Daryl and Jesus sit down for a meal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One In Which Daryl Feeds Jesus

**Author's Note:**

> The Walking Dead is not owned by me, etc. etc.
> 
> I don't know what this is. I sat down fully intending to write smut, and instead here's a slice of domesticity with some philosophical muttering??? I think I was *really* hungry. 
> 
> This takes place after "No Tomorrow Yet," assuming that everyone makes it home safely.

They returned from the Saviors' outpost a different group than when they had left. They hadn’t lost any people, not even Maggie and Carol, which, after that hostage fiasco, was nothing short of a miracle. But, they were different now. Parts of them broken. Edges dulled. Pieces snapped off. The group had done and seen things that couldn’t be undone or unseen. Daryl could tell, in the way Aaron was sitting, hunched into himself; in the dullness in Glenn’s eyes; in the white’s of Rick’s knuckles over the steering wheel. They hadn’t lost, technically, today, but they sure as hell hadn’t won anything either.

Instead, they had started something. Unintentionally.

The cars slid into the Alexandria gates one by one, and everyone poured out in a lazy, scattered, exhausted mess. There was Tobin, searching the crowd for Carol. Carl with Judith bouncing in his arms, hurrying towards Rick. Daryl had just hopped down onto the asphalt, Jesus behind him, when Eric came hurrying up, his eyes fearful as he scanned the cars.

“Daryl—Aaron?”

“Yeah, he made it,” Daryl mumbled. He nodded back to their motorhome just as Aaron climbed out of, exhaustion hanging in bags under his eyes. Relief took the air out of Eric, and he closed on Aaron, wrapping him up in a hug. Daryl adjusted the pack on his back, and noticed Jesus smiling slightly, looking at them.

All around them, people were hugging, kissing. Carol was on her toes smooching Tobin; Rick had his arm around Michonne’s waist as she held Judith, the both of them talking to the toddler, who was grinning and hiding her face in Michonne’s shoulder. Maggie and Glenn were conferring on the sidewalk, their hands linked. Daryl didn’t realize it, but both he and Jesus looked back at Aaron and Eric at the same time.

“Must be nice,” Jesus said softly, a sarcastic bounce in his voice, “to come home to someone who runs up and throws their arms around you.”

“Not that nice,” Daryl grunted. He’d spotted another face in the crowd, with a bobbing blonde ponytail and glasses.

Jesus frowned. “Why not?”

“’Cause sometimes they don’t come home.” Daryl flagged down Denise, who weaved quickly through the congestion over to him.

“She’s fine,” he said quickly, before she could ask. “Made it through the fight, set off with Heath like they planned.”

“Oh. Good.” Denise sighed, in a way that suggested she wasn’t particularly relieved. “Good. Well. Thank you.”

She put her hands on her hips, chest heaving. She must’ve run here from the infirmary, even though she knew Tara wouldn’t be here to greet her.

“You’re Tara’s Denise?” Jesus asked. He spoke a little more softly, and kindly, than he had a moment ago. No sarcastic curl now. “She was talking about you, in the car.”

“She—She was?” Denise looked honestly surprised. “What—um—what did she say?”

She cringed, almost, like she expected it to be something bad.

A slow, sincere smile spread over Jesus’s face, all for Denise’s benefit. “She shared that she told you she loved you for the first time. She was—very happy about it. Beaming.”

Daryl saw it. A flicker in Jesus’s big blue eyes. A twitch in his lips when he smiled. Tara might’ve mentioned blurting the big three words, but there might’ve been more to the conversation than Jesus was letting on.

Denise didn’t pick up on that, though. And, whatever it was, she didn’t need to know about it. Not when this news had her grinning, all embarrassed and beaming. She spluttered another thank you before heading back to the infirmary, her grin damn near splitting her cheeks.

Daryl glanced sideways at Jesus. Maybe this idiot had a little benevolent savoir in him after all.

People were starting to peter out, park the cars, head hand-in-hand back to their houses. A couple Alexandrians had wheeled Daryl’s motorcycle, snatched back from the Saviors, down from the truck bed they’d brought it home in. (He’d’a driven it home, but he’d been too exhausted, and he kinda wanted to douse the thing in bleach before he sat on it, considering the pricks who’d been using it.)

Daryl meant to slouch off for home himself, but he and Jesus were standing practically shoulder to shoulder, and they accidentally turned towards each other—like they were each waiting for the other to say something.

The awkwardness of their silence hit an apex. Jesus sighed through his nostrils, and Daryl was certain he was about to excuse himself, head for whatever bed Rick had assigned him, when—

“Ya’hungry?” Daryl heard himself saying.

“I— _Yeah_.” Jesus practically exhaled the word. Because, yeah. Other than some un-chewable jerky and a slab of Denise’s oatcake on the way up to the outpost, they hadn’t put anything in their stomachs for almost a full day. Daryl felt the hunger raking his insides, and he figured he was much more familiar with the hurt than Jesus.

“C’mon,” he said, and shouldered past Jesus to get his bike.

#

The house was one of the smaller ones. (‘Course, in Alexandria, “smaller” still meant a two-story immaculate colonial with single rooms bigger than Daryl’s whole house growing up.) Daryl hadn’t moved in so much as he’d thrown his stuff in a corner, but there was a crust of mud trailing from the front door and the dried blood of a deboned fish staining the kitchen island that made the place feel a little more like home.

Daryl was standing in the kitchen, scraping at the frying pan over the stovetop, when Jesus came back from the bathroom—he’d showered, changing into that white shirt that made him look like he’d walked right out of some church’s kitschy oil painting, with his beard freshly trimmed and his hair falling over his shoulders. He came into the room sniffing, and let out a groan that was almost euphoric.

“ _God_ , that smells good,” he said, and craned to see over Daryl’s shoulder.

Two generous slabs of fish sizzled in the frying pan, scales shining silvery blue, surrounded by wedges of green tomatoes. The smell was somethin’ else, Jesus was right.

“Where’d you go fishing?” Jesus slid onto a barstool at the island. He didn’t even seem to notice the blood and fish bones slapped across the granite.

“Neighborhood’s got a stocked pond.” Daryl started scraping the tomatoes out of the pan, portioning them onto two plates. “Or, had. I dumped a ton of gasoline in there, set it on fire, to attract Walkers. Fish all died, but.” He put the last tomato in place and sucked juice off his finger. “Still good eatin’.”

He glanced back at Jesus, to see him react. He was staring at the frying pan so eagerly, he didn’t even seem to have registered what Daryl said.

“I haven’t had fish in so long. Or any kind of meat.” Jesus was watching every move of Daryl’s spatula. “Gregory won’t let us kill any of our chickens or cows—I get it. It’s more practical to keep them alive, the eggs and milk last longer. But ... still.”

“I got a skunk in the freezer, if you get hungry for more.”

The guy must’ve been starving, or more used to his so-called New World than Daryl thought, because his chin jerked in a nod — like he’d be over here tomorrow night, ready to eat roast Pepé Le Pew.

Switching off the stove, and dropping the frying pan into the sink to mingle with Daryl’s other neglected dishes, Daryl plopped himself onto a stool across from Jesus and slid him his plate. The fish was good—he still preferred cooking over a campfire, but had to admit the stovetop worked just fine. Salty, juicy, the edges satisfyingly crunchy. Daryl tore his helping into flaky pieces, licking his fingers after each bite. Jesus scooped a fried tomato into his mouth, and nodded appreciatively with each chew.

“So good,” he said around his mouthful. He swallowed, with some difficulty, and gestured at the kitchen. “I thought you lived with Rick and his family. When’d you come here?”

Daryl pinched off another piece of fish and dropped it in his mouth. “Couple nights ago.” He chewed while he talked. “Walked into that house, heard the bed upstairs squeakin’, decided to relocate.”

Jesus snorted into his fish.

“Ah shit,” Daryl said suddenly, as he sucked another dollop of grease off his thumb. He leaned back on his stool, reaching for one of the cabinet drawers. “You need a fork? Forgot—”

“Oh.” Jesus looked down at his plate, which he had been tearing into with his fingers as readily as Daryl. “I did too.” He waved a hand. “I’m fine.”

“Ya sure?” When Jesus nodded, Daryl shrugged and hunched back over his plate. “Less to clean anyway.”

The fried tomatoes were tasty, and more of a splurge than Daryl usually entertained. He was glad Denise kept badgering him about vitamins and omega-whatever’s—Jesus was sucking up those tomatoes so fast, Daryl plucked two slices off his own plate and dropped them on Jesus’s.

“So.” Chewing, Jesus pointed towards the window, Daryl’s newly reclaimed motorcycle could be seen, parked in the driveway. “That motorcycle was yours?”

“Yeah.” Daryl reached into his mouth to pick a small bone out of his teeth. He flicked it towards the floor. “One of Negan’s assholes swiped it a couple week’s back. It was my second. First broke down, but this one—Eric and I built it from scratch in his garage.”

Jesus nodded, still wolfing down his food. Daryl bit into one of the roasted tomatoes. “Negan’s guys were some ugly sons of bitches, weren’t they?”

This earned Daryl a snort. Jesus’s hair swung into his face as he nodded. “Every one of them we’ve seen has been like that. Big guys. Lots of leather. Thick-necked biker gang asshole types. Which... occurs to me now is a slightly rude description to use two seconds after you tell me about your motorcycles.”

Daryl picked up the rest of his filet in both hands and gnawed on it like it was an ear of corn. “Nah, I get you. Hell,” he ripped a bite off with his teeth and gnashed it, swallowing hard, “m’brother would probably be one of ‘em if he were still alive.”

Jesus’s eyebrows rose at this, but otherwise his face was still, interested. Daryl finished off his fish and sucked his fingers clean.

“’Course, the way Merle ran his mouth, he’d have been killed fifty times over by now.”

He didn’t look up at Jesus. Couldn’t, for a second. He was right, though. Merle would’ve gotten himself shanked by somebody, even if he had survived the Governor. He might’ve even joined forces with Joe’s gang, _helped_ them kill Rick and Michonne on the roadside that night. Had he made it to Terminus, those cannibals would’ve cooked him just to shut him up. Hell, Merle locked up with them in that boxcar, talking and complaining and singing and insulting everybody— _Daryl_ might’ve killed him.

Jesus cleared his throat a little. Daryl glanced up, through the hair that had fallen into his eyes. He might’ve been quiet longer than he meant to be. Jesus was dragging his last tomato wedge around his plate, making trails in the grease.

“My, uh—” Jesus’s eyelashes fluttered upwards, searching Daryl. Gauging his reaction to whatever he was going to say next. The look made Daryl sit up a little straighter. “—Before this all started, my boyfriend was constantly on my case about this ... martial arts _obsession_ , I guess you could say I had. Almost every night of the week, I was taking some class or another. Karate. Judo. Taekwondo. I was talking about quitting my job and becoming an instructor.”

He smiled, a little ruefully. Daryl, for some reason, had gone perfectly still. Like he’d crept up on a wild animal he didn’t want to scare—not ‘cause he was hunting it, just ... ‘cause he didn’t want it to go scurrying back into its hole.

“I’d been ... roughed up a lot at school,” Jesus said, real fast, like he was pushing the words out. “Kids pick up on stuff, you know? Even if they can’t define it, they know it. I was small, queer, liked to wear my hair long... Anyway. He didn’t understand the aggression of it. The _need_ to know how to fight.”

He picked up that wedge of tomato, shaking it a little, before shoving it whole in his mouth.

“Every time something new happens, I have those kind of thoughts. Would he have survived that? If he hadn’t died then, would he still be alive now? And if he were here, what would he think of what I’m doing?” Jesus stared somewhere beyond his plate, and he looked far hungrier and more exhausted than when they first sat down. “I don’t know. Useless. He’s gone.”

“How’d it happen?” Daryl’s voice came scraping out, like gravel. Jesus’s eyelashes gave a little flutter again, as he looked up, regarding Daryl with a flat, guarded expression.

“Walkers can’t be reasoned with,” he said simply, that sarcastic bounce in his voice again. “They don’t care if you treat them with civility or patience. Especially not when they’re sneaking up behind you and taking a chunk out of your neck.”

“M’sorry, man.”

Jesus shrugged. “Mostly ... I dunno. I hate that he was wrong. Like your man Morgan at that meeting — you want to think that killing isn’t the answer, that violence should always be the last resort, but ... the kind of people who’ve managed to survive in this world, they’ve made it this far because they’re _ruthless_ , you know? Because they’re willing to do unthinkable things. Like Rick—”

“Rick’s been through a lot,” Daryl interrupted, real fast.

A slow, sad smile broke over Jesus’s face. “I guess that’s the question. Are we capable of doing the things we do because of what we’ve gone through ... or was this capacity for violence, this _need_ to be aggressive ... always there, inside us?”

He faded off. Daryl leaned back in his seat, licking the last of the grease off his fingers as he watched Jesus stare down at his plate, now empty. Somewhere outside, Alexandria’s streetlamps flickered on, bathing the kitchen in a ghostly silver glow.

“I got cookies,” Daryl said suddenly. He scraped back his stool as he jumped to his feet.

“You—what?” A surprised laugh fell out of Jesus, and he grinned his old, eye-twinkling grin.

“Yeah, made with beets and shit.” Daryl scooped the Tupperware off the counter; inside rattled Daryl’s portion of Carol’s pillowy pink cookies. He popped the lid as he climbed back into his seat and slid the plastic container between them.

As they gorged themselves on the cookies, Jesus glancing up at Daryl between bites, Daryl hunched over the Tupperware, purposefully not looking at him, thinking ... Yeah. It was true. They _were_ different now, all of them. Edges dulled down. Pieces chipped off.

And maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing, to have someone to worry about you, and come running when you got back to town.

“House’s got two bedrooms,” Daryl mumbled, working a cookie whole into his mouth.

Jesus looked up at him, cookie suspended halfway to his mouth. “Yeah?”

Daryl shrugged, looking down.

“Well.” Jesus swiped crumbs off his beard with the back of his hand, lips smacking as he chewed. “Guess you can show me how to cook skunk.”

“Guess I can,” said Daryl.


End file.
